


The Militant Deserts of Serypa

by varkdeboys



Category: Original Work
Genre: Desert, Diary/Journal, Highly descripive, References to anime, References to gaming, Wasteland, Zombies (sorta), allusions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 07:00:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12383235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varkdeboys/pseuds/varkdeboys
Summary: Welcome to Serypa. It’s not a bad place, if you don’t mind the flashbang bright sun and lack of water. Oh, and the ragged. What are the ragged you ask? They’re the infected; the ones who aren’t human anymore.I don’t quite know where they came from, but I know they don’t care about anyone’s well being. They wonder around these dry lands looking for something, anything to sink their rotten and infected teeth into. You gotta be careful of them: they may look weak and slow, but I know as a fact that they are as fast as a cheetah and more attentive than a winter fox.Out here, if you can’t keep your head, you can’t survive. Stealth is key, and your only companion is the gun that you trust the most.It’s truly kill or be killed out here.





	The Militant Deserts of Serypa

Journal entry: 1   
Date: 7/15/2381   
This is currently day 4792 of my solo survival in Serypa. Today marks the day that I discovered the journal that this entry is recorded in.    
  
I suppose I should start by introducing myself. My name is Cenlog Trucust. I am 34 years old, male, and I have found my living as a wanderer of these dusty lands. I travel with a good friend, my AR-15. It’s a relic, I know, but it works well and has yet to fail me.   
  
Out here you gotta be fast, level headed, and quiet. I’ve grown used to having a heavy bag on my back, so, through years of experience, I have figured how to stealth with it. What makes it heavy is all the extra ammo, some water, and lots of canned food.    
  
It’s a rough life, but I’ve grown used to it.   
  
*****   
  
Journal entry: 2   
Date: 7/17/2381   
A small pack of the ragged rushed me today. Nothing I couldn’t handle though. My good ol’ AR proved it’s worth once more. The thing’s accurate, and I count on that. You gotta shoot those ragged right where it counts: the heart.    
  
I know that may sound a bit off, the heart being the weak spot. You might have thought it was the brain, like what all those old zombie movies told you, but that’s not really the case. I mean, yes, you can shoot the head and it’ll take those bastards out, but you have to removed the whole head for that to work. The reason for that is because the disease that turned those freaks into what they are attacks the heart and the bone marrow. It makes the blood turn black and viscous. Something about that blood makes the victims go crazy. Therefore, stop the blood, stop the freak.   
  
*****   
  
Journal entry: 3   
Date: 7/28/2381   
I’ve been spending the last few days with a caravan of three people. They were a nice group of people. We spent one of our nights together swapping stories. While doing so one of them, a young girl no later than her twenties asked me about my gun. She was an odd one: she always wore red and black (horrible camouflage for the desert), and an affinity for bladed weapons.  I had noticed she had a twinkle in her eye and a hunger for knowledge the moment she spotted my weapon. Seeing this, I chose to indulge her.   
  
I figured I could record the same story here; just for posterity.   
  
So this story starts like any other story. I was wandering the deserts and happened to cross a small town. Usually towns like these will have been raided long ago, and I’ll just skim over it quickly and quietly. However, this place was totally empty. No ragged, no survivors. I chose to take in the sights while I searched, and in doing so I came to a large building. I dusted off a sign in front of the structure and discovered that it was a museum of war.   
  
I figured that it could be beneficial to enter seeing as how my only weapon at the time was a worn down M1911 pistol.    
  
At first sight of the museum’s main room my hope of finding anything useful fell. There were mini sand dunes inside, and it seemed that everything had already been looted. However, I had seen this type of thing before: horrible first impressions, but once you start digging, you find the good stuff. It’s a lot like my second lover. Anyhow, I gathered my thoughts and began to search the historically filled remnant of a building.   
  
My journey took me down multiple sandy hallways and corridors, each of which was decorated with shattered shadow boxes and robbed exhibits. My feet scuffed through the thick sand covering on the floor. I felt somewhat relaxed wandering through the halls. And don’t think I didn’t realized the irony of feeling peaceful in a place meant only for recounting gruesome battles, wars, and weapons thereof. That, of course, didn’t mean my guard was down. I was careful to check my corners.   
  
My wondering carried on for about an hour before I ran into anything worthwhile. However, anything I found at that point paled in comparison to the glorious gun that I discovered. It sat in an untouched shadowbox, barrel pointing down, a small golden sign that read “M-16: the choice rifle of 21st century soldiers”, and a fancy golden wall lamp illuminating the piece. The box was made of an old but unfaded wood inlayed with gold. It looked like a holy scene set up by God. It was so perfect that there wasn’t even any sand on the floor in front of it. I knew at that moment that I had to have that gun in my hands.   
  
I quickly pulled out a crowbar that I had found earlier and swung it at the glass as hard as I could. To my surprise, the steel tool bounced off the glass, flew from my hands, and clattered to a halt on the floor behind me. My hands buzzed with pain and the glass showed only a small chip missing. I cursed to myself as I came to the realization that it was bullet-proof glass. Looking back on it, it made sense, but in the moment I was only pissed. Fueled by my irrational anger, I picked up the crowbar and began wailing away at the glass.    
  
I have no idea how long it took me to finally break through that blasted glass, but I did. My hands were buzzing and bruised when I gently lifted the M-16 off of it’s ornamental rack. I quivered with excitement and I looked down the sights and pulled the trigger as a dry-fire test. Disappointment and a tinge of panic hit me when I didn’t hear the familiar click of the firing pin. I quickly disassembled the rifle in order to inspect the issue.    
  
I realized that the primary intestines of the gun were missing. My panic was calmed as I realized that this was a museum and that this was normal. I triumphantly walked into the nearest storage room and began prying open wooden crates in a search for the missing pieces.    
  


I was happy to find the parts tucked away within the seventh crate I opened. I delicately reassembled the weapon and tried the dry-fire test again. A satisfying click confirmed that I had done well.   
  
Before leaving the establishment of brutal recollection, I grabbed three magazines and a manual intended for my new defensive measure.   
  


*****


End file.
